


The Blurring of Art and Life

by Himmelreich, meguri_aite



Series: Makishima's Book Club [1]
Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, High School!Kougami, Middle School!Makishima, Prequel, with a cameo of High School!Ginoza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:16:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himmelreich/pseuds/Himmelreich, https://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/pseuds/meguri_aite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Art Is the Daughter of Freedom.'<i> That was what a blackletter graffiti that had appeared overnight on the walls of a certain middle school in Tokyo said.</i><br/>Shougo-kun took his Classic Literature lessons close to heart from an early age, the impressionable thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blurring of Art and Life

_'Art Is the Daughter of Freedom.'_ That was what a blackletter graffiti that had appeared overnight on the walls of a certain middle school in Tokyo said.  
Shougo-kun took his Classic Literature lessons close to heart from an early age, the impressionable thing.

Two weeks later, the graffitti had still not yet been removed - he assumed it was because of that whole incident with one of the science teachers snapping over burn-out syndrome in class, Psycho Pass skyrocketing, causing Psycho Hazard for his unfortunate bunch of pupils and having to be taken to therapy by members of the Public Safety Bureau, and the resulting panic, justification rampage and re-evaluation of the school that poetic and artistically pleasing graffitti on outer back walls facing nothing but a narrow and rarely used alley were the least of the faculty's worries at the moment. Still, he had made a habit out of walking past it every day after school on his way home, never throwing it more than a casual glance in order not to appear suspicious, just one peek to make sure that yes, it was still there, still true, and still his. On this Monday, however, his eyes were instantly caught by something that had not been there the last time he had come by - an ugly black scribble below his immaculate letters, written in haste, probably in the dark, and with a marker on its last legs, it seemed. He stopped in his tracks and moved closer, expecting it to be some of the usual middle school nonsense along the lines of _'Kouichi from 2-B has eyes as sky blue as his hue ♥'_ or _'Na. and To. were totally making out on the playground last Saturday lol'_ , motivated by an already existing graffitti on the wall, the value of which - of that he was sure - none of the idot pupils of this school understood in the first place. To his genuine suprise, the messy handwriting - definitely a boy's, he mused, probably of his own age given that the letters still lacked a distinct personal style - formed words that echoed in his mind with the unique sensation of immediate recognition: _'life imitates art far more than art imitates life'_. He felt the corners of his moth pull into a smile just upon reading these familiar lines, and a peculiar feeling of excitement came over him - someone out there had seen his quote and replied to it. Sure, it might have been just a coincidence, and maybe the person would never pass this way ever again, but still, as he turned around to head home, fingers casually stroking over the written words as he did, as if he could feel them - he felt as if he could in that moment - his mind was already swarmed with quotes he could use to reply to this new addition. He had time to choose until tomorrow, he thought, what a much more pleasant and exciting task to accomplish than boring homework.

* * *

"Kougami-kun."  
It was amazing just how many different shades of accusation and casual disappointment this person managed to put into one single word, Kougami thought to himself, as he looked up from his notes to find Ginoza standing in front of his desk, right hand extended, apparently waiting for something.  
"... yes?", Kougami asked, genuinely not quite sure what the matter was this time.  
Ginoza sighed.  
"The black marker I lent you the other day, do you still have it? I need it for the next class."  
"Ah, right, sorry", Kougami replied, immediately rummaging through his pockets, but came up empty.  
Ginoza sighed again, withdrawing his hand in a gesture of defeat by the cruel universe - and Kougami, who suprisingly often seemed to act as its proxy to Ginoza - once again.  
"I swear I had it with me yesterday still", Kougami started defending himself, embarrassed at losing a friend's belongings. "I know for sure, I must have lost it somewhen after I came by that school and-"  
"Nevermind", Ginoza cut him short, leaving him without listening to Kougami's repeated promises of buying him a new marker next thing in the morning.

* * *

It had been two weeks now, two weeks during which he had made a point out of regularily checking the wall for new a reply to the quote he had ended up choosing - _'This everyday world affects the way art is created as much as it conditions its response.'_ \- but still, nothing. To his own annoyance he found himself passing by the deserted alley multiple times a day, even on the weekends when the school lay deserted and silent, as if he could coax the mysterious writer into replying faster by sheer force of will. A rational part of him chided himself for still believing that the person would actually happen to come this way ever again - it had probably been a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, maybe he had gotten lost and discovered the graffitti by accident, replying to it on a whim without putting further thought into it or even considering the possibility of turning it into an anonymous ongoing conversation. It had probably been foolish to assume that there was someone like him out there, interested in the beauty and value of words many people seemed to have long since forgotten about, willing to join his intellectual conversations, and be it only via interactive graffitti. And still, some resilient and ridiculous spark of hope made him walk by the wall again and again, until one morning - four weeks and three days, not that he was still counting - he was met with nothing but a freshly painted, boring and empty white wall. He stood completely still and simply stared at it for quite some time, eyes unfocussing at the complete lack of anything on this blank page, and felt an unfamiliar pang of melancholia - for losing something that might still have had the chance to exist, maybe, or perhaps just for losing his desire to make a small miracle happen in this horribly pre-determined life.

After this day, he never once returned to the alley for the remainder of his days at middle school.

* * *

" _'We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone_ ', was it..."  
"Sorry, did you just say something?"  
Makishima turned his head to see that Choe had stopped a few steps ahead and regarded him with a questioning look, obviously confused at what had made his companion freeze in place in the middle of the road, staring at the dirty grey wall of an abandoned, run-down building. They were not exactly in a hurry, but walking about in public always posed a certain risk for someone like Choe whose Crime Coefficient only on a good day dropped anywhere below 300, and Makishima himself was usually not too eager to be caught on too many of the omnipresent surveillance cameras in the city centre, either, so they normally made their trips short and tried to stick to less crowded or generally deserted areas. With his mind on more pressing matters, he had not even noticed where their route had led them to on this day, until out of the corner of his eyes, he had spotted it.  
"Nothing, really", he replied with a sheepish smile, "I only just now noticed that this used to be my old middle school. I really haven't been around these parts for a long time, I suppose."  
"Well, seems it's no longer in use, though", Choe observed, body language speaking volumes of his intent to move on and lack of understanding for sentimentalities about places of education. Figures.  
"Do you have any special memories of this place? You sure seem pretty transfixed by it."  
"Do I now?" Makishima gave a small laugh, at last tearing his eyes from where there was nothing where something should have been and catching up with his friend in a few strides. "Only one, I guess. It's funny, really, I haven't thought about it in years, but I can still see the writing as if it were still there when I look at this wall. The mind sure is a curious thing, and memories can be so cruel, don't you think?"  
Choe opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it again, shook his head silently and walked on. Whatever it was that was on Makishima's mind in this moment, he doubted he would understand it, even if the other would care to explain it. He probably hadn't expected an answer to his rhetorical question in the first place.  
Makishima fell back in pace with him, seemingly lost in thought. Before they stepped out of the alley, he turned his head to look back one more time.  
"Still, I wonder whatever became of that person..."

**Author's Note:**

> 4 a.m. impromptu one-shots in cooperation with and prompts by dear deer [meguri_aite](http://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/pseuds/meguri_aite%22) are the best sort of one-shot, to me at least. 
> 
> Quotes used:  
> \- _'Art Is the Daughter of Freedom.'_ \- Friedrich Schiller: _Letters Upon The Aesthetic Education of Man_ (1794)  
>  \- _'Life imitates Art far more than Art imitates Life.'_ \- Oscar Wilde: _The Decay of Lying_ (1889)  
>  \- _'This everyday world affects the way art is created as much as it conditions its response.'_ \- Allan Kaprow: _'Essays on the Blurring of Art and Life'_ (1993)  
>  \- _'We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.'_ \- Orson Welles in _Somebody to Love_ (1985)


End file.
